


I'm a Ruin

by DollBones



Category: It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia
Genre: Brother-Sister Relationships, Depression, F/M, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Mood Swings, Narcissism, Psychologists & Psychiatrists, Twins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-13
Updated: 2016-10-13
Packaged: 2018-08-20 10:48:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8246225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DollBones/pseuds/DollBones
Summary: Dennis drags Dee along with him to a follow-up appointment with the psychiatrist he saw in "Psycho Pete Returns."  Drama ensues.





	

"Oh my god, _move_ , you bitch!" Dennis screamed at the red Volvo in front of them at the traffic light, slamming his hand down on the car horn.

"Fat, fucking cow," he muttered as the Volvo turned, and he pressed on the gas.  His long-suffering Range Rover lurched, sputtering like an arthritic geriatric before shooting forward with such violence that Dee jerked out of her seat, her seat belt digging into her chest.  Recovering herself, she shot him an annoyed look which he ignored, too focused on some indiscernible rant he was spewing under his breath--something about traffic and government conspiracies, the futility of life and the inexorable approach of death.  God knows how those were connected.  Dee examined her brother from the passenger seat.

He was getting worse.  The spots of gray in his hair--Dee remembered a time just a few years ago when he went and dyed his entire head black after spotting the first (and most likely imaginary) strands of silver in his curls, and now it seemed as if he couldn't be bothered.  Glancing at his hands clutching the steering wheel in a vise grip, she saw that his fingernails were stubby, brittle; he must have started biting them, a habit that the Dennis of Golden-God yore would have looked upon with disdain.  Overall, there was a newfound element of haggardness to her twin.  The edges of his scowling face were like sharded bone, a distinct ferality looming in his eyes, a clear and unequivocal symbol of the madness to which he was steadily succumbing.  It wasn't like Dee hadn't seen it before.  In their teenage years, she'd glimpsed it hiding in the corners of his irises, unveiling itself occasionally in sporadic outbreaks, rashes of unstable and insane thoughts and behavior that would be abruptly swept under the rug by their parents the moment the symptoms "cleared up."  Like when Dee sprained her ankle and he threw himself down the stairs, sustaining a broken arm and a concussion, because their mother was actually paying more attention to her for once.  Or when he wrestled her for the kitchen knife he threatened to use against Tim Murphy for allegedly sleeping with his prom date.  When he locked himself in his room for a week because he got a "C" on a Calculus exam.  Or the dozens of times she caught him standing at the edge of the balcony outside his bedroom, and when she screamed at him to ask what the hell he was doing, he looked at her as if in a daze.

In a strange way, it occurred to her that her brother was now the closest he'd ever been to his real self.  The self that he so desperately wanted to hide.  Gradually, his mask was slipping, though he clung to it for dear life, effectively winding himself up tighter and tighter, the strings holding him together growing more brittle until they would finally snap under the pressure.  And then, Dee thought with foreboding, there's no telling what he would do.

Looking at Dennis, Dee did feel just the tiniest bit of pity.  It wasn't often that her concern and love for her brother superseded her awareness of what a piece of human shit he was.  But he just looked so...broken.

Dennis turned his scowl on her.  "Why are you looking at me like that?" he barked.

Out of nowhere, he'd become hostile, aggressive, and anyone else--even Mac, her twin's pathetic love-slave--would have been terrified.  But Dee had an entire life's worth of experience navigating her brother's sharp mood swings.  He was scared, scared shitless because they were on their way to a follow-up appointment with his psychiatrist.  It had been six months before he started to even use the medicine that had been prescribed to him.  And even after she'd caught him using it in her bathroom, he'd tried to explain it away as an "experiment."  Then he'd rationalized that he was not going to let a perfectly good bottle of pills go to waste even though, _even though_ , he didn't need them.  It took two weeks after he ran out of the pills, two long weeks of daily screaming tirades and crying fits, before he made the call to schedule another appointment.  This morning, he'd cornered her in the kitchen and badgered her into going with him.

"Why can't Mac go with you?" she'd asked groggily, having just woken up with no other plans for the morning other than to make some cereal and watch reality TV in her PJs for about three hours.

"He can't know about this," Dennis had insisted.  "Nobody else can."

After a few minutes of hushed arguing (Mac was asleep in the next room) and Dennis threatening to reveal to the Gang what he'd caught her doing in her room one day when they were teenagers, Dee reluctantly allowed Dennis to shove her into the car.  Pulling down the flap over the mirror above the passenger seat now, Dee figured she didn't look too bad for a woman pushing 40 who'd had to get dressed and smear on makeup inside a moving vehicle.  ("You couldn't have told me any earlier?" she'd hissed at him, "you know, since I'm in pajamas?"  "That's just it, Dee," Dennis had said, wide-eyed and shivering with revulsion, "90 percent of the people in there are in their pajamas.")

Sure, her foundation was a little patchy, and her eyes were a little red because she'd poked herself a couple times with a kohl pencil (much to Dennis' delight).  And yeah, her eye makeup overall was a tad smudged and whorish-looking--but hey, grunge was in.  And sure, her hair had a serious case of bedhead.  But, really: not too bad.

From the corner of her eye, she could see Dennis still glowering at her, face contorted in an expression of quivering, barely contained wrath that emphasized nascent wrinkles around his forehead and mouth.  For a tantalizing second, she thought about pointing this out to him, then chucked the idea.  The last thing she needed was to agitate him more.  Then again, she thought with a growing smile, if she got him riled up enough that he had a major episode at this session, maybe the psychiatrist would have him committed, and he'd be out of her hair for a while. 

"Why are you smiling?" Dennis snapped at her.  "What, you think it's funny that I have to go through this humiliating experience?  This degrading, outrageous travesty?"

You could tell when Dennis Reynolds was losing it, because his speech would get increasingly baroque.   _Classic narcissistic defense mechanism,_ Dee thought, recalling the knowledge gleaned from her psych major days.   _When feeling inferior or vulnerable, overcompensate by making those around you aware of how superior you are to them_.  She propped her elbow up on the window ledge, leaning her cheek into her palm.  "Oh, for Christ's sake.  Get over yourself. For the record, I would never take the very serious issue of mental health lightly. "

Dennis grimaced.  "Oh god, Dee.  Spare me the Psych 101, touchy-feely, hippie act, will you?  Besides," he paused, the corners of his mouth twitching petulantly, and then said, "there's nothing wrong with my mental health."

He actually looked surprised when she burst into laughter.  "What?"

She looked at him, sides shaking.  "Really, Dennis?  You literally drag me with you to see a psychiatrist at nine in the morning, and you say there's nothing wrong with you.  Jesus."

Dennis' jaw clenched.  "It's just a doctor's appointment," he mumbled; it wasn't so much as a reply to her as reassurance to himself.  His eyes fluttered, and he inhaled sharply.  "Just a routine visit," he said again in that self-soothing tone.  "Just so I can keep getting medication.  That's all."

"That's all?" Dee repeated, mirth giving way to rising irritation.  "That's all?  I don't believe this.  You won't admit it, even when it's so fucking obvious.  Come on, I know you're not that delusional."

Dennis swallowed, looking straight ahead.  "I don't know what you're talking about."

"I'm talking about the fact that you're a fucking psycho."

Dennis gave a nervous laugh, bristling.  "Ludicrous--"

Dee locked her eyes with his; Dennis fidgeted under her razor-sharp gaze.  "Look at me," she demanded.  "Look at me and admit it."

More squirming, trying to seem dismissive.  "Admit what?"

"Dennis."

Faltering, cracks in the facade.  "Dee, don't..."  His voice was a pleading whimper.

" _Dennis._ "

All at once, her brother began to cry.  Like a stone edifice crumbling, the shattering of porcelain. It was a sight that made Dee's chest clench.

Guilt welled up inside her.  "Oh, Dennis," she sighed, mouth drawn into a concerned frown, "I'm sorry." She reached out for his hand, to twine her fingers tightly around his like they did when they were children, lost to the world inside an empty mansion, but he pulled his hand away.

For a while, she retreated into silence, knowing better than to prod him when he was in this state.  Dee looked out the window and watched the bustling scenery of Philadelphia.  The sounds of Dennis' sobs were cold needles pricking into her spine.   _It wasn't fair,_ she thought sullenly.  Why was it that he got to be the asshole with no empathy for her when she was distressed, but when the tables were turned, she felt her heart ache for him?  Not always, of course.  Often, she succeeded in playing the bitch.  Although, too often, that wasn't the case.  So, why?  She heard him sniff, exhale shakily.  Then she knew why: because he needed her.  She digested the revelation with somber conviction. Dennis needed her (and Mac, in another way) as someone he could fall back on, as a source of comfort and validation which he could not provide for himself.  She, on the other hand, needed him to need her.  It was the perfect storm of toxic codependency.

Dennis pulled into the hospital parking lot.  She watched him park the car in a spot near the front, take the keys out of the ignition.  With a tremulous breath, he straightened in his seat.   At last, he spoke, his voice tight.  "I'm not that delusional, you know."

He gave her a grim look; the mascara that he wore daily now was smudged, his cheeks flushed, making his skin appear raw.  "I know, okay?" he said.  He bit his lip.  "I know that there's something wrong with me.  But I can't accept it.  I  _can't._  I have to pretend.  Because pretending is all I have.  I've been faking it for so long that fake is now the only thing that's real.  I don't even think there is anything real about me, sometimes."

His face twisted, tears springing up in his eyes again, and his next words were rushed, panicky.  "I feel so empty, Dee.  And I feel fucking terrified.  And all I want is to not be alone."

The crying started again.  This time, he dove into her waiting arms.  Dee held him, one hand stroking his back, feeling her own eyes grow moist.   _Idiot,_ she thought, looking down at her brother with affection.   _You're never going to be alone.  I'm your twin sister.  Not leaving you alone is kind of my thing._ They stayed embracing for a minute or two longer, then Dennis extricated himself from her arms.

He looked at her with sincere warmth and gratitude.  "This never happened," he said.

Dee nodded in agreement, and the the twins stepped out of the car.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I really ought to be more prolific, ha ha. I started this fic several months ago, but dropped it in favor of another story. I decided finally to continue it because there can never be enough sweet, brother-sister moments between Dennis and Dee.


End file.
